Soon Kinsan’s father was attracted by the new melody of her voice, and he, too, came and stood near and listened. No word was said until after the song had been finished. Then Fujimoto came forward and bowed to Tetsutaisho. This was the first warning Kinsan had of the unusual audience her singing had attracted, and she quickly arose and bowed and made excuses for her inattention.
“I would rather you sat there and sang than to have arisen and courtesied a thousand times,” said Tetsutaisho, as he left the roadside and made his way among the lilacs to where she was standing. “One does not often have the opportunity, though the wish be constant, and the privilege of being one of such an audience!” he continued, as he leaned over and caressed first one and then another of the little children as they came huddling up. “Were it not that you deserve such happiness, Fujimoto, I might almost envy you your good fortune in being placed here amidst such loveliness. The trees, the birds, the flowers, the children—and, allow me, the daughter—among whom you dwell, must certainly inspire a rare happiness.”
The children had by this time scampered in all directions, and the three elders were left to speak or go as they liked.
“Yes, honourable sir.” said Fujimoto, touched not a little, “these are truly things not to be despised. The daughter is my comfort: all are my joy, and after all, my lot may not be a despicable one. Had I always the favour of Sumi, god of water, my task might be lighter. Still I am content, and happy so long as my Kinsan is spared to me.”
Nothing further was said about Kinsan; the one and only object of interest which the nobleman could have or cared to have in the humble gardener’s affairs. They walked along at Tetsutaisho’s suggestion toward the cottage, which stood some little distance farther on. When the big officer entered the palace enclosure he had no intention of making the gardener’s family a call. In fact, he had of late almost dismissed them from his mind; but the moment he heard Kinsan’s voice the spark within again came to life, and when he drew near and saw how modestly she sat and how neatly she was gowned and how her eyes sparkled with life and how the blood rose to her cheeks, his heart flamed more fiercely than before. Tetsutaisho pondered, then said to himself:
“It is only the father who stands in my way. If I could but get his confidence, I might then win her love. But why ask anybody’s consent? Force will get me the one thing, and—well, persistence the other. They are both at my disposal—why delay the matter?”
Kinsan did not speak as they walked, but fell into a deep study. Whether it came to her intuitively or from a change in Tetsutaisho’s mood she partially understood him, and as they approached the house and she thought of her mother a feeling of fear took hold of her and she trembled and hesitated. She knew of their straitened circumstances and of how her mother had repeatedly chided her father for not having taken advantage of Tetsutaisho’s former liberal offer. The ends of her fingers tingled, then grew cold, and the perspiration stood in great beads on her forehead. When they had arrived at the house and her mother came running out, bowing to the visitor, Kinsan’s heart sickened, and she no longer possessed that confidence in her father which had hitherto buoyed her under each successive trial.
“It is the hand of fate, and I am its certain victim,” was the thought which ran through her mind and would not go away.
When the rest entered the house she politely withdrew, unnoticed, and went away, far into the woods, and on and on until she came to the hidden cave, where every rock and all the flowers and even the stars had sung again and again of her great love and Shibusawa’s faith. She did not return, but lingered and stayed, and prayed fresh prayers; and then she thought she saw him there bending over her; she heard him speak and looked into his eyes, and felt again the power of his love. After a long time she went away, and when far from the cave and all about was darkness and she was uncertain of her way a chill came over her and she thought of the tempter’s bait and her mother’s weakness.
“Would to God that I, too, had found a way!” was her last thought as she nestled upon her wooden pillow, and at last slept a broken, restless sleep.
Late that evening Tetsutaisho left the cottage and lightly tripped along down the pathway toward his own house. As he went his steps quickened, and he almost ran with delight. He carried in his girdle a document which on the morrow he would safely file and thus insure the proper keeping of its lawful provisions. Upon his arrival he hurriedly entered the house, and that night Takara may have had, for the first time, misgivings of a weaker purpose on Tetsutaisho’s part than she herself had divined.
However that may have been, it mattered not to Tetsutaisho, for on the following day his own carriers set in front of the gardener’s cottage a beautiful lacquered chair into which there stepped a weeping, sorrowing child; a daughter whose only price was the worth of her virtue, whose only hope lay in the power of her own frail hands.
She went, and with her the rags that hung upon her back. There was not a mother’s blessing, and the father had slunk back from witnessing the fruit of a heartless wife’s bargaining. It was not the first. Others had likewise served. And the fathers and mothers had for ages eagerly and unknowingly partaken of the wages.
Upon Kinsan’s arrival at Tetsutaisho’s house she was treated with every consideration by her master, and in reality though not in fact given equal rank with the mistress. She was settled in that part of the house over which his mother was supposed to reign and his lawful wife, Nehachibana, had been the principal personage, and while not raised to the place of a concubine she was given all the privileges of one. Her position was supposed to be that of a servant, yet in turn she was given servants and no duties were, by Tetsutaisho, exacted of her. It was not because he did not intend her to be his full-fledged concubine, nor because he had any scruples about Nehachibana that he did not give Kinsan that position; but simply because he entertained grave doubts about Takara’s pleasure in the matter—something with which even he as yet hesitated to trifle.
He had gained Takara’s love, and her honest love, upon the strength of an affinity—a thing which, so long as it lasted, brooked no rival. He had, though, in taking her into his house assumed responsibilities far beyond personal ones; and recognising the superiority of her position realised that, should he incur her displeasure, she had but to call upon a power that might overthrow and discard him in spite of his usefulness. He sought, therefore, to deceive Takara as to his real purpose in bringing Kinsan into the house, and to let her discover by slow degrees that, without a proper encouragement, even affinity may wane and finally cease to hold the object of its affection.
Takara still loved him and was none the wiser; thus he continued without danger his complicated relations, though she felt a growing coldness and the oncoming of something, she knew not what. She was now deeply worried and much given to thinking, for there was approaching also a critical period; but when rumours came to her ears, and she chided him about Kinsan, he answered:
“Takara, you do me a great injustice. I am not only true, as you see, but I have anticipated the necessity of keeping at hand one upon whose shoulders may be placed the responsibilities for the care of our child.”
“But why not intrust that service to one whom we know to be best fitted?” asked Takara, anxiously. “There is Nannoto, whose mother carried in her arms your mother’s mother.”
“No, Takara; it is not the service I would trouble myself about. My lady should not so degrade herself.”
“Why degraded? You told me not.”
“It is not the fashion.”
“But if it is my choice?”
“You have no choice.”
“Would you take from a mother her child?”
“The law allows it.”
“Then the law is unjust, and there is a better way.”
“Fashion is inexorable, and the law must be upheld.”
“Whether the fashion or the law, it is wrong. A mother’s breast is a woman’s joy.”
“Obedience is a woman’s highest virtue.”
Takara understood fully the force as well as the law of her chosen lord’s argument, though she was none the less aware of her own recourse. While she felt the chagrin of defeat she realised the danger of appeal; therefore she concluded to bide her time and make the best use of her opportunities. Her love for him was not dead, but there was awakening within her a new light, a better purpose.
Nehachibana, though better informed, had been the more easily deceived. Not that she in the least misunderstood her husband’s motive in foisting upon her another and a still more unwelcome rival, but that she entirely mistook Kinsan’s position. Nehachibana loved Tetsutaisho—just why she had never stopped to inquire. If it was because she was his wife, her love was none the less intense; and because she was in love with him, she thought every other woman must be—at least all those who evinced the slightest interest, whether courted or courting. And if she was to share another portion, she found much consolation if not happiness in the thought that Takara, too, must lose in like proportion. It was a reiteration of the old adage that there can be no great loss without some small gain; a jealous reward and a revengeful satisfaction. She now pitied Takara and hated Kinsan (in virtue of a community of feeling)—the one because of her position, the other in consequence of hers.
The mother’s indifference proved to be as great a blessing to Kinsan as it was a curse to Nehachibana. What the one gained by being let alone the other lost in virtue of being served likewise, thus results struck a happy balance. But it was from another source that fear and anxiety came to both alike, to Nehachibana because of neglect and to Kinsan because of danger.
As the last sight of the latter’s childhood home had vanished from her view she bent down under the weight of her grief, but when she had arrived at Tetsutaisho’s place of sin and had been brought face to face with his mock glances she fell upon her knees, not in humble supplication, but in the full recognition of her weakness. It was then that she prayed as only one can pray who values life less than honour; and when the fiendish touch came she did not yield, but shrank from him and spoke her mind in a voice that is beyond the power of words. Sheer courage lost him his victim, determination saved her.
Stunned by the force of her great purity, he did not lessen his persistence, but delayed from time to time a more cowardly intention; finally there dawned within him the impulse of a purer love, which gradually overcame his weakness and made it possible to find a better way. He decided now to hold her in reality as a servant, and on the seventh day after the birth of the child, himself took it, and carrying it to Kinsan, placed it in her arms and told her that it should be her charge. It was a fine, large boy, the eyes and mould revealing its mother’s heritage, and as Tetsutaisho gave Kinsan the baby, he bade her call it Sodachinojoi, and say nothing more. Then he said to her:
“You have refused me; now you must serve mine. So long as you do that, and do it well, and as I bid, you shall know no penalty, though it is a grave sin to oppose your master’s will. And when you have done, I shall trust to gratitude for what you have so persistently withheld. Go now, and beware of the inquisitive.”
“My heart bids me do my part,” said she, in answer. “This burden is even more, it is a blessing. I pray for strength that I may serve well and please much. The reward is already mine.”
“Then you would mock me, heigh? Bring me the child—no; I shall send you both to the dungeon,” and he arose and stood meditating.
“I pray you, sir, send me, but save the child. It is innocent, and it has a mother. I am unworthy, yet I will pay the penalty. Pray, sir?”
He did not answer at once, but stood regarding her; he may have marvelled at her charity, possibly he was touched by her tenderness. At all events he moved closer, and whispered:
“Kinsan, I truly love you.”
She did not hear him. Her eyes rested on the child in her arms. She was thinking of a mother’s sorrow, possibly a child’s fate. He came close up and would have touched her had she not shrunk from him and cried:
“I do not comprehend. It is not his voice. It is not true.”
“Aha,” said Tetsutaisho to himself, as he leaned back in silence. “It is not I that she disdains, but it is another whom she loves.”
Then after a while he addressed her saying:
“Kinsan, I trust you will pardon my incivility. I did not mean to be rude, though I may deserve your censure. And now that it is done, I do not want you to feel that it is my heart that is wrong. Do me the honour to serve this child, and Tetsutaisho shall see to it that the reward be as you desire. I leave you free to say as much, if it is your pleasure.”
“The honour is mine to serve. The pleasure, yours to grant. And is there any higher?” asked she, confident and earnest.
Tetsutaisho soon after withdrew and left Kinsan to begin her new duties with a lighter heart and a better confidence. She felt with renewed hope that there was still a chance for the right. And now that her hands were no longer idle, she must drive away despair and set about with fresh courage to make much happiness out of the little that life offered.
She soon learned to love the child, and often took it from the nurse and held it in her own arms. At dusk of night she would sit for hours, singing lullabies or reciting favourite poems. Sometimes she peered dreamily, softly, into the far distance, and then her voice would rise to the sweet, lonely pitch of the nightingale or deepen into tenderest pathos. Once these sad, weird strains reached Tetsutaisho’s ears, and they touched him more deeply, strangely, than when he first heard her at the garden.
“It is her soul speaking its wonderful love,” said he to himself, as he lounged and listened from his own mat on a dark, still night, “and I would give all that is in this world were that love for me.”
Then he asked Ikamon to come to his house and listen in the cool of the evening to her songs and her poems. No mention was made to her of her intended audience, for Tetsutaisho had learned her true spirit and was now beginning to respect her. He would not so intrude as to ask her to sing; her heart only alone and undisturbed could invoke such melody; yet he could not resist inviting his friend to share the pleasure of her voice, though only by chance might they be so privileged. Ikamon came and he, too, was charmed.
“It is the grandest voice I ever heard,” said he, with enthusiasm, as he arose and thanked his host for the entertainment, preparatory to taking his leave.
When Ikamon had gone Tetsutaisho retired, and as he did so he went with the satisfaction of having discovered, as he thought, the secret of his failure. He had always regarded Kinsan as a prize not to be overlooked, but had not offered to divine her real charm. His repeated defeat had not been attributed to that; it was upon baser grounds he had excused himself and accused her. Her constancy, however, had awakened in him a better sense of her nature, and he now began to feel the force of her virtue; but having again mistaken her, and wrongfully attributed her refusal to the success of a rival, he became mad and vowed vengeance as well as victory.
“I will hunt him down!” said he to himself, as he entered his den, and there stayed and fretted, in spite of Takara’s repeated urgent calls. “It is not Kinsan, but her lover that is the real cause of my discomfiture. Law makes right, and Tetsutaisho shall vindicate the law.”
He retired late, but felt himself rewarded by the day’s ending. At first he had really intended to give Kinsan only the care of the child, but now it occurred to him to make it her own. The power was in his hands; why not use it? She seemed glad of the care, and it would give her an occupation, an excuse for being in his house: her lover would divine another reason.
Takara ought not to suffer much from the loss, and should profit by the subterfuge. Her birth, her position, her ambition, all demanded a better protection, a surer disposition. Why not benefit her? There was not a soul in the house who might be any the wiser, unless it were Michizane, the poet, and banishment must silence him. That were a simple matter and Ikamon would attend to it at once. His own devotion to Takara for a short time should quell any misgivings and allay all feelings on her part, while a little deception would start everything smoothly on its proper course.
“I am the man!” thought he, and he slumbered long and in peace.
The next morning he hurried to Takara, and when he had left her she was thankful for his having come, and less doubtful about his sincerity. Whether real or not, she realised that the wiser course is to turn a bad bargain to good use, and resigned herself to the hope, if not belief, that his plans were for the best and that he would keep his promises.
Before leaving the house for the day Tetsutaisho ran in to see the child and incidentally make some assurances to Kinsan. She, glad of the opportunity, resigned herself to her task without questioning too closely the purpose or thinking much about the outcome. Here at least was a respite, and anything promising to stay the hand of fate was to her indeed welcome. Therefore, when Nehachibana came in later in the day and found Kinsan cooing over a little red baby, all flounced with silk, a-kicking and a-crying, her face coloured and she began to question its kindly mistress with something of curiosity, if not suspicion.
“Oh, what a pretty baby!” said she, as she crossed the room and squatted on the floor in front. “And where did you get it? It is so cunning. Is it yours? I wish I had a baby like that—so big and bright. But then it wouldn’t have eyes like those, I know. Would it? Let me see your eyes, Kinsan—I never could tell a baby’s mother.”
“I shall not let you have this one, though you don’t see its mother in its eyes. It’s a good baby, and its name is Sodachinojoi, and no more.”
“Oh, what a name! and how? My husband said you are a gardener’s daughter.”
“And even so, the breeding may be none the less. I hope you will like the baby, and I will do all I can to make him worthy of his name and a joy to us all.”
“Why do you not say, ‘My baby’? I should, if I had one.”
“Then why don’t you?” said Kinsan, with much surprise; she still believing that only Nehachibana could be the mother of her husband’s child, as her own mother had been of all her father’s children.
“Take your charge, you impudent thing! I shall never set foot upon your mat again. No, never!” shrieked Nehachibana, as she pushed the child toward Kinsan and flew from the room.
Kinsan was not greatly disturbed by Nehachibana’s demeanour, though the thrust was painful and entirely uncalled for so far as she could see or know. However, she was by this time accustomed to jeers, if not insults, and did not take the words much to heart, and only thought of how agreeable it would be should the other make good her threat and stay away; at least until such time as her understanding prompted a kinder treatment.
Nehachibana in a measure made good her threat, and as Tetsutaisho’s mother was devoted more to her own interests than to doubtful infants, and had always regarded Kinsan with suspicion, she, too, took particular pains to keep well out of the way. Tetsutaisho soon came to spending much of his time at army headquarters, at Ikamon’s, or at the council chamber. Takara’s sorrow for the loss of her child, which she had not been permitted to see since it was taken away from her, though in some degree mitigated—satisfactorily to everybody except Nehachibana—by Tetsutaisho’s devotion, during the little time he now spent at home, occupied her attention.
Thus affairs at home adjusted themselves, while at state the lordly general busied himself principally with getting Ikamon to scheme the banishment and deportation of the pious, harmless old poet and faithful servant, Michizane. The prime minister was finally induced to urge so severe a measure, more through his efforts to hush up every possible chance for a clash between the two rival factions over Takara’s strange and painful situation, than as a personal favour to his friend. The venerable sage had been her only confidant, as well as a possible adviser to the enemy; therefore Tetsutaisho not only desired to get rid of him, but Ikamon deemed it expedient to do so.
Nor had they long to wait the opportunity, for there was at that time some question as to whether in case of death there was a lawful successor to the shogun. While the matter was as yet of no real importance either to the shogunate or the party, it was seized upon and agitated by Ikamon for a double purpose. Had there been any real prospects of Iyesada’s losing hold on life there might have been occasion for the great ado which was being made about it; for the shogun to die without a lawful successor was considered the greatest misfortune that could befall the nation. The proper degree of interest having been aroused, and the shogun himself having taken on the desired state of susceptibility, it was urged upon his highness to call in the customary wise man without delay; and as Michizane had already become known for his premonitions, Ikamon had only to mention the poet’s name to induce his selection.
Michizane was sitting at his accustomed place musing the hours away when a messenger, escorted by two courtiers with large letters emblazoned upon their uniforms, approached and with much ceremony handed him a parchment roll. It was the shogun’s command, so Michizane trembled as he broke the seal and read from the long document, which unrolled from his hand. It was a great honour conferred, even more than he had dared ever to dream, and charity should pardon the rise of feeling which he then experienced.
A chair stood outside awaiting his pleasure, and also a regular cavalcade of guards, runners, carriers, and attendants was there, in silk and gold, ready to pay him attention. At first he said not a word; then glancing around and bowing low, signalled his “honourable informant” to await his “miserable preparation.”
After advising his mistress, and receiving her blessing—amid somewhat of misgivings—he marched down the line and took his place in the swaying palanquin. Without delay he was carried directly to the hall of state, where Ikamon met him and, escorting him to a private chamber held and coached him until the hour of his presentation had arrived. And while there, the very first thing impressed upon his mind was his indebtedness to Ikamon and to no other for the honour of his appointment. He needed no coaching as to the gravity of the situation; that was a thing to be understood.
“You are to tell the shogun, the supreme administrator of the divine mikado, the confidant of Ikamon, and the lover of his loyal subjects, that there is extreme danger of a failure of succession should his august highness refuse longer to sojourn without the pale of his reverend predecessors, and that it now becomes your painful duty to predict the immediate adoption of one Iyemochi, a member of the legion, and supporter of the cause.”
This is what Ikamon told the innocent Michizane to say, yet he knew it would so enrage the shogun that he would cause the seer forthwith to be consigned to harakiri or banishment for life. Ikamon had also anticipated its other effect upon the doubtful Iyesada, causing him to brood over the succession and finally to carry out the predicted measure in the hope of warding off an evil hand. The banishment of the poet would be a welcome thing because it was pleasing to his friend and war god, Tetsutaisho. The adoption of Iyemochi, a willing tool, would insure Ikamon’s complete domination of the shogunate upon Iyesada’s death, which he thought might be hastened if not occasioned.
Thus Ikamon planned and the proud, puffed-up scholar obeyed; and before the day had passed Michizane found his vanity gratified and himself condemned to banishment for the rest of his life. When night came he was lashed down with cords, and without a parting word carried far away, never to return.
The oracle had spoken and the bigoted, suspicious Iyesada had believed it the voice of Ema-O, and knowing of no safer commitment chose the Isle of Banishment. Nor did this alone satisfy his overwrought conscience, but immediately the thing was done he called Ikamon and upon his advice adopted forthwith the child successor, and proclaimed a universal rejoicing.
The new heir was hailed with acclamation, Ikamon praised for his cleverness, and Tetsutaisho applauded by his admiring friends; though new troubles dawned on every side. Takara’s eyes opened to her true situation, and her faithful adherents rallied to plan her deliverance. Tetsutaisho observed her growing indifference, but crediting it with no deeper meaning than personal apathy sought in his old way to revive the spark which so soon seemed all but dead. It was of no use, for Takara saw farther than he knew.
Takara deeply mourned the fate of Michizane, whom she not only loved but had revered as the only living representative left to her of a fast fading memory. She pondered, but wisely held her counsel. Tetsutaisho did not fathom her, but satisfied himself and reviled her upon shallower grounds.
When left to his own recourse, shorn of impulse, his understanding seldom rose above the lesser order. He was big in war, but small in consequence. Nor was his sympathy any the greater, and when she remonstrated about her child, he laughed and told her that she, a daughter of royalty, should be the last to question the wisdom of the law. He only urged her to forget the circumstance and respect his will. She acquiesced for the time being, but there was rising within her a bitter spirit. There was coming a day when the mind, too, should assert its rank; when the soul should attain its fulness.
“But why are you less ardent?” questioned he, one evening after having returned from Kinsan’s apartments, where, as Takara knew, he was now in the habit of regularly spending much time.
“Would you ask me why darkness follows light, the earth rotates on its axis, and flesh turns to stone? I thought you a man of consequence, not an object of pity,” answered she, calmly though earnestly.
Tetsutaisho stood aghast at her daring, yet thought not to search for its meaning. Had he but looked outside, the veil might have fallen from his blinded eyes, for the same spirit which moved Takara had roused a host of valiant defenders. The boldness of Ikamon’s stroke had so stunned the enemy as to irrevocably establish the new order, but not without inevitably disastrous consequences.
Even to the shogun’s supporters, the destruction of the apparently harmless Michizane, and the advent of the scarcely known child, Iyeyoshi, seemed so veiled in mystery that many were inclined to believe that some deep-laid scheme lay behind a rather elusive but possible trick. In consequence, the shogun, in his weakness, anxious to hide his stupidity behind some apparent justification, took the burden upon his own shoulders and thus widened the breach between himself and his true friends, increasing to that extent his dependence upon Ikamon.
The discontent due to the adoption of an heir to the shogunate became after a time, however, somewhat allayed; but the curiosity aroused by the banishment of Michizane increased, and the feeling of unrest at the mikado’s seat grew to such degree that before a year had passed the south began to assume a resentful if not hostile attitude. Nearly five years had elapsed since their favourite daughter, Takara, had been carried away to become the wife of Shibusawa, the most promising of the young princes under the shogunate. No results had as yet obtained from this alliance, nor had the restoration of the kuge[12] taken place as promised. They were dissatisfied, and Takara’s misalliance was the first pretext seized upon to rouse a determined move. Spies had been sent to Tokyo and the whole truth discovered to a few of the leaders, yet from policy’s sake these reports had been suppressed in the hope of perfecting a more judicious organisation before the advent of a general uprising.
This conservatism on the part of the southern leaders baffled Ikamon, who believed them, like himself, incapable of looking beyond self-interest for a motive. Others might sacrifice and strive for humanity, but the sweet-voiced god Oshaka ever whispered in Ikamon’s ear the one word, “Self.” It was self that lay at the bottom; self that raised the human above the brute; self that promised life eternal: the gods were but self, asserted and ordained, and ordinary man was only the blind, the halt, the sympathetic. Diplomacy was his weapon, heroism an humbler man’s part.
Tetsutaisho was now too much absorbed with personal affairs even to try to grasp the outer shreds of a complicated political situation. True, he had realised in some measure from time to time that an ugly gossip circulated on the outside as to affairs at his house; yet he was slow to appreciate its importance, and but for being urged from other sources would have given it barely passing notice. He busied himself more with shifting his attentions from a worn love to one that was new though elusive, and as yet unfound.
Thus Tetsutaisho for once released Takara from his constant attention, and when she lay down in the freedom of her chamber she marvelled at his neglect, for she not only knew his real purpose in bringing Kinsan into the house, but understood his utter failure. She realised that the innocent girl’s struggles had not been in vain, and she gloried in her virtue. She said to herself:
“What a womanhood! Oh, if I had but known the way! How gladly would I surrender the wreath of state, the power of kings, for the crown of purity! But alas! it is not mine. It is only for those who know their true god. May I never again see mine!”
Then she slept, and she dreamed that she heard Michizane’s voice, that he spoke to her, and that the words were a poem in praise of her ancestors, that all about was a garden and in it were her friends; that her soul turned to beauty, and joy came down from Heaven, and all was peace. She did not wake, but saw Hyaku, the young magician, and felt the power of his magic, although she could neither move nor speak.
The Band of Forty-Seven had entered Takara’s chamber at dead of night, and placing her in a light chair slung upon the backs of swift carriers, well disguised, ran with the speed of the hare, the endurance of the ox; and before they could be overtaken, or it was really known what had happened, they were at Kyoto, in her own mother’s house; when again Takara saw the hand of Hyaku, and felt its power; she awakened and there was real gladness in her heart. She made no inquiry as to how it all happened, or as to the motive which prompted their timely action. She knew that it was the ronin[13] who fetched her, and that she was welcome when she got there. Had she known all, she would have understood better how those trusted men had for days and months waited and watched their chance to seize and carry her away to her friends; back to the home she had surrendered to no purpose except that of sorrow and regret.
The news of Takara’s return to the home of her childhood, and of the manner of her escape, soon became known to the immediate friends of Tetsutaisho’s family. Maido paid but little attention to the circumstance, and thus, probably, gave occasion for the rumour, which gained some credence, that he had actually winked at her going and was not particular about her returning. However that may be, his general failing and prolonged worry over Shibusawa’s absence were not a sufficient shield for his indifference, at least in the opinion of some of his less intimate friends. Tetsutaisho, more dazed at the audacity of the ronin than puzzled with the reason for Takara’s abduction, at first inclined toward instituting a vigorous pursuit, but upon second thought concluded he had best consult his friends before inaugurating any such serious undertaking.
“It is not so much that I care for the concubine,” said he to Ikamon, on the following day; “it is the vindication of the law that prompts me to send a detachment for her relief. These bands of marauders must be suppressed, even at the cost of war upon their stronghold. What safety is there for a gentleman so long as his castle may be entered and his property carried away while he sleeps? The next we hear, it will be the shogun himself of whom we are robbed. Give Tetsutaisho the word, I say, and he will soon make an end of it—Saigo, the ronin, his dreamers, Kido, and all.”
Ikamon did not fire so easily as to let his enthusiasm run away with his judgment, yet he was none the less quick to apprehend the danger confronting them. The paltry sop thrown to Saigo and a few followers had scarcely touched the lofty progress of the literati. There could be but one finale: materialism must sooner or later find itself pitted against patriotism. Iyesada, weak and uncertain, was little to the purpose in a serious conflict, and no one knew better than Ikamon the over-sensitive shogun’s inclination to side with the last to persuade; of his want of policy; of his anxiety and bewilderment. He therefore urged upon Tetsutaisho the necessity of proceeding in the dark and cautiously.
“Keep these fellows at bay,” said he, confidentially, “until we can discover their real purpose and strength. In the meantime Iyesada may die—Ikamon can then safely devise. The shogunate in the hands of an infant is better to our purpose. The plans of the mikadate if in our hands can be made to serve rather than defeat us. I would advise, if advice be meet, that you send out your spies and keep at home your force.”
Tetsutaisho heeded the warning, and before long copious if not trustworthy news came from every conceivable source. Iyesada soon died, and the youthful Iyemochi succeeded as shogun; while Tetsutaisho marvelled at Ikamon’s wisdom, and more than ever resigned himself to the conquest of more peaceful delights. Kinsan had suddenly become the sole object of his attention, and for her heart he pressed his suit, more than ever ardent, if not sincere. Maido, absolved from all these matters, had more and more devoted himself to the memory of his son, but now that good news had reached him he rejoiced, and anxiously awaited the return of Shibusawa.
Maido had not long to wait, though the time seemed never to pass. It was the first word received from his son, for Shibusawa knew the danger of even attempting to communicate with either his parent or Kinsan. During all these years he knew not what effect his departure had wrought at home, nor of the fortunes of those whom he had left behind. Still he had always hoped for the best, and when he had definitely made up his mind to return he so managed to forward the letter of advice as to bring it safely to Maido’s hand; arriving, as it happened, only a few days after Takara had been seized and carried away by the ronin, and none too early, for Shibusawa himself came soon thereafter.
To avoid possible compromise Shibusawa had couched the letter in such terms that no one but a father could be the wiser for its contents; therefore no dates were fixed, and the anxious daimyo had only to wait, and for hours sat watching the gate in front. These were suspicious times at Tokyo, hence no preparations could be made for the home-coming, nor information given out, save Maido’s instructions to the faithful Okyo. Thereafter no arrival escaped that one’s vigilant eye, and when the expected ship had safely arrived at Yokohama he was there on hand with an extra pilgrim’s outfit on his back.
Late the next evening they two reached home, and Shibusawa, footsore and weary, hurried up the pathway and into the house, where he bowed low at his father’s feet. Neither attempted to speak. When Shibusawa had changed his clothing they sat in the cool of the evening, for it was now late in June, enjoying the breeze that floated in from the bay in the distance. The family brazier was again brought out, and they sat and smoked and talked the hours away.
“And now, father,” said the son, after they had talked much about the family and things at home, “you must lie down and sleep, and to-morrow I shall tell you all about myself. I know you are anxious to hear, but you must rest now, and then the story will be the more pleasing. You need have no fear but you shall hear it all—I am returned, and I promise I shall not soon again leave you. Goodnight, and peace for you.”
They had no sooner parted and the father gone to sleep than Shibusawa hastened to change his dress and once again find his way to the hidden cave. The time seemed long to him since he had last been there, and now that he was about to go again he felt that he never would get started. Just why he wanted to hurry there he did not know; possibly he had not consulted reason; yet it was his only hope, and that was enough to impel him to go.
As he approached the familiar gate where he had so often passed he observed that new locks hung from the latches; that the old guard had gone; that a haughty, “Who goes there?” greeted his ears, and suddenly it appeared to him that a great change had taken place. He realised for the first time that he was no longer in the land which he had left only a few years before; that here, too, the seed of progress had been sown, and that already new sprouts were bursting forth. He marvelled at the new order, and a fresh desire came upon him. Suddenly he turned upon the trusty, and in answer said convincingly:
“A friend.”
He knew it was of no use to deny his purpose or make any extended explanation; neither was he willing nor the guard desirous that he should. Under the circumstances just one thing would gain his admittance; none in that land knew better than Shibusawa, the newly returned, just what results could be obtained by the judicious use of money. So, when the pompous keeper jerked his steel from the hip and held it abreast his chin, with firm footing and erect body, Shibusawa did not weaken in the least, but boldly approached and unconcernedly dropped a coin in the fellow’s convenient hand.
“All’s well!” shouted the subdued guard, as he turned his back and lowered his arms, the while Shibusawa raised the latch and entered at one side the ponderous gate.
He did not hesitate nor give the matter further thought, but hurried on toward the place which to him bore the most pleasant memory of his life. Each pebble seemed a guide post, and every step an inspiration. He tramped on without either stopping or lagging until the hill had been scaled, and then there came over him grave feelings of doubt and of dread. The pathway was no longer clear. The entrance was a tangled thicket of brier and weeds. He made further progress with difficulty, and when he had reached the mouldy place no friendly sight greeted his eyes. Years of abandonment had obliterated everything except her memory. He paused and looked around, then shuddered, and stumbled toward that side where once the stone steps had marked the entrance. They were still bare, though unused; no trash had gathered there. They were yet as undefiled as they were on the day he had found Kinsan lying upon them. He sat down and searched among the stars for an answer to his heart’s yearnings.
Long he studied as to what had been her fate. Each new thought stirred him to greater determination, every discouragement moved him to plan afresh. He must find her; yet he sat with his face buried in his hands; despair overshadowed him. Then he thought of the old hiding-place, where in days gone by they were wont to secrete such messages as were sacred to them alone. He arose and climbed up to the entrance as if it were but yesterday that he had been there.
He raised the wisteria, which had grown heavy and more dense. Inside the walled den, the webs stretched thicker and stronger than before. Here and there a spider paused, then ran his way. There was no sound, yet a voice bade him enter. He searched, and in the centre found two stones, placed one on top of the other. He knew they were placed there not by accident. Fear overcame him, and he stood breathless, yet powerless. Then he stooped and raised the stone, which revealed a message that to him was sweeter, dearer than all the world.
He hastened back to the cave, and seating himself on the stone steps, where he had pressed her close to him and listened to her golden words of confidence, broke the seal from which there unfolded a musty sheet that in the light of a smiling moon again spoke her heart’s content:
“Dear Love:
“It is for you that I write. None other is worth the while. I am going to-morrow where fate has called me. I have little to offer, except an undying love; all else is theirs; it is decreed right. But so long as the soul is and the heart beats, this love shall be yours and only yours. The spirit which gave it to you shall keep it for you.
“Oh, decree of man, where is your relish! I bow to your will, but in him is my god. My Shibusawa, my love, my light! In you life still has hope. Death shall meet its reward. Think of me a little, do not judge me harshly, let me live as my heart tells me, and I shall die happy. The troubles of the earth will be as the joys of heaven, and you shall be the hand that guides me, saves me—oh, I love you so! I cannot live except for you, I shall not die without you.
“Believe me, your true love, your sweetheart,
“K.’
The puzzled man read the note again and again with care, then leaned back in silence. He had divined only too truly her fate, and when he thought that possibly she, too, had been put up to the highest bidder, a feeling of faintness took hold of him and he bent forward and sat for a long time unable to move or to decide.
The cock had already crowed before Shibusawa reached his chamber and lay down to rest. He could not sleep, but arose and went for a walk in the woodland bordering the castle grounds. Here he searched out a secluded spot, where he sat down in the light of early morning to think and plan. The air was still and the sun just beginning to pierce the cool shade of the forest, with here and there a ray of warmth. Presently the quiet was broken by the sound of footsteps approaching through the garden, and looking up he saw Maido coming toward him.
“Are you here, too, and so early?” said the daimyo, with a ring of gladness that came from his heart. “I thought only the elders, like me, enjoyed a sunrise jaunt among the stately sentinels of time. Come, my lordship, join me and I’ll show you how a son’s return affects a father’s legs. It’s many a day since these old stokies of mind served me as they have this morning. It reminds me of the time when a mother brought you to my side. A happy day it was, and she lies up yonder, my boy, in the tomb, behind the temple. You may not dislike going there with your father—will you, this morning?”
Shibusawa may have anticipated the idea, for they set off together toward the family shrine. The distance was not great nor the hill steep; just enough to quicken old age and banter youth.
They did not tarry long at the tomb,—only long enough to revere the dead and inspire the living,—but soon arose and retraced their steps a short distance to where they seated themselves in the shade of the temple. As they sat they could see afar over the samurai dwellings and the noised-up city to the glassy bay in front, or over the castle grounds to the left, or to the timbered hills on the right. There they sat and talked at will. Now and then the conversation drifted back to Shibusawa’s absence, and each experience related touched more deeply the father’s slow but certain apprehension.
“I dare say there are no temples in that far-away land,” said the lord daimyo, more inquisitive than positive.
“Oh, yes, there are,” was the young prince’s quick rejoinder, “only they are much larger and less beautiful. They worship in herds in that country; and they have a paid supplicant to do the honours, while the multitude sit and gape and snore. It’s a great saving of time and trouble, this European method of salvation.”
“And have they gods?”
“Oh, yes; they have a God. The principle is just the same. It’s only the form that makes it different from ours.”
“Ah, the practice! And after all, that is man’s only reality: the ideal is the grander existence. And do these strange worshippers have habitations, and go about clad as we do?”
“They have houses—ours are not like theirs, thanks to good fortune—in which the idea, as in their churches, is to get as many under one roof as possible. They build floor over floor, and then wear their lives out climbing from one to the other. They are not only herders but climbers as well. Then the craze to encroach one upon another is so great that all try to live at a few isolated spots. There are millions of broad acres—the area is so great that for want of a comparison I cannot convey to you anything but a hazed idea—upon which the sun shines and over which the fresh air circulates, yet these people hang out of ten-story windows and pant for breath or hide away in some dark, damp rooms and stare their eyes out under the glare of firelight.”
“Horrors! my son. And they would teach us how to live?”
“Not only that, but they cover the streets with rock and steel and then force iron-wheeled cars over the rough surface or harsh-sounding rails until the roar and the clatter make them deaf or drive them insane.”
“Shocking!”
“And when they sleep at night they huddle together under the same quilt, and when they arise and go about their walled dens or out upon the filth-breeding, dust-driven streets they cover themselves with all sorts of coarse material far rougher than our matting on the floor or the material with which we sack our products of the field. Their feet are bound up in close-fitting skins on which are nailed or sewn stiff leather soles, and their heads are weighted down with all manner of hot, ill-shaped and wind-catching hats or other gear.”
“And is such their clothing?”
“Yes. And it is fashioned, mostly, so as to expose as much as possible the person’s form, or its lines, and it may be worn, or donned, in piecemeal. It is only to be commended for street sweeping or fly baiting. And what a mixture; and so untidy and so uncomfortable! It makes me creep all over when I think of it, and of how they swelter on a hot day and freeze on a cold one.”
“What barbarians!”
“And their food! Well, I can best impress you with that by saying that the cooks and doctors constitute a large percentage of the population, and that the mortality resulting from the strife carried on between the two classes, the one tearing down and the other building up, is hardly less than frightful. The science of both is a constant assault upon the stomach, with the odds so overwhelmingly in favour of the cooks that life is reduced to an average period of only some thirty-three years. And the taste, and the smell! Well, either is farthest removed from nature’s storehouse, and that is enough said, I warrant.”
“And that is where you have been seeking knowledge all this time?”
“Yes; I spent only four of the five years at college, learning how to cheat. Yes, cheat; that is the thing. First man, then nature. The former, because it is easy; the latter, because it is progress. And if the fructifications of a scientist, or a doctor, or a lawyer, or a preacher, or a merchant, do not meet with your ideas of success, then try the fortunes of a statesman or a warrior; and what you cannot get by diplomacy, force with powder and shot.”
“And that is what you call Christian civilisation?”
“It is so called.”
“Then shame!”
“Even so, their progress is none the less.”
“What is the secret?”
The conversation broke off there and they both sat for a long time absorbed in study. The one looked backward, the other forward. Neither was satisfied; man never is.
Presently Shibusawa began rambling over his experiences, relating first an incident and telling afterwards of a conquest. His father’s spirits rose, and they laughed or marvelled together as an amusing episode or an awkward situation came to mind. He told of how fortune had compelled him to work his passage and earn his way from the time he left his native land until he had returned; of how he had pushed on from place to place until the American continent had been crossed, and how in the great city of New York he had struggled to complete a course in college. And withal he had been studious and so frugal that by the time he was graduated he had saved enough from his earnings to pay his passage to Europe, thence home again via the Suez Canal and Hong Kong.
His experiences had been somewhat unpleasant at first, but as time passed and he had become accustomed to work he did not find the necessities of the situation so irksome. Upon the whole he felt contented with results, and believed that his search for knowledge had not been amiss. Although he had been subjected to keen humiliation and had met with much hardship, he harboured no ill-feeling toward the new civilisation which he had encountered. He freely acknowledged that he appreciated the impossibility of any assimilation between the Occident and the Orient, and felt that while the one sojourned with the other he needs must suffer a disadvantage.
“While I regret that I have given you cause for so much anxiety,” continued Shibusawa, “I feel that I have done nothing to disgrace you, and that the experience and knowledge gained will sometime serve us well. In all things pertaining to life there must be a beginning, and that I have been a pioneer I do not regret. I shall always endeavour to make the best use of my opportunities, and I am now ready to take my proper place.”
“You have spoken well, my son, and Maido is proud.”
Soon after, though late in the morning, they arose and wended their way toward the castle, and as they went their interest gradually drifted to matters at home, including the marriage of Nehachibana. Maido told his son all about Takara’s recent disappearance from Tokyo, but mentioned only casually her sojourn with the Tetsutaishos. Though deeply interested Shibusawa showed little concern about his wife, and no criticisms were offered; he appreciated his father’s situation in the matter and resolved to be considerate. A deeper thought began to reassert itself, growing anxiety took hold of him, and he soon became wrapped with care only for Kinsan.
Upon Shibusawa’s arrival at the mansion he separated from his father and, going to his own apartments, lay down to rest. The relaxation, due to a change of solicitude, overcame his feverish anxiety and soon put him fast asleep. When he arose, late in the afternoon, he set about his duties as if no serious problem had ever entered his life, and when he met Ikamon, his first caller, he proved himself the master of his own situation.
The news of Shibusawa’s return had soon spread, though it created little interest beyond the circle of his immediate family. There was a time when such an occurrence would have been heralded as an important event, but now the lord daimyo no longer held the sway he once did. True, there was no falling off in his power, and indirectly no slackening of his influence; still that influence had come to be exercised largely through the medium of Ikamon, and Maido’s wealth and position were more and more accounted as the latter’s strength.
Going away from home at so early an age and remaining away for so long a time, Shibusawa had never become well known at Tokyo, and almost ceased to be taken into account in reckoning the family’s political or social status. Though Maido’s neglect, occasioned largely by grief for his absent son, had enabled Ikamon to gradually appropriate to his own use the family’s place and wealth, it was not so intended; and nobody knew better than the wily son-in-law himself that default rather than purpose permitted him to enjoy the almost unlimited use of another’s fortune. When Shibusawa returned, Ikamon therefore hastened to cultivate with the son that same friendly intercourse which he had always enjoyed with the father. In consequence he extended to his relative a hearty greeting, which to his surprise met with a generous response.
This readiness to take the hand of fellowship did not arise from any lack of understanding, nor could its motive be in the least questioned. Shibusawa desired to cultivate a better acquaintance with his father’s associates and contemporaries as well as to meet and revive old friendships. Persistency rapidly bore its fruit, for not alone his rank, but his superior education and polish gave him place, while his quiet, unobtrusive manner brought him into respect with all the more progressive of the shogun’s court.
In matters of state Maido had gradually released his hold, and now that he had grown old and less inclined to assume the responsibility he began to long for the freedom of the country. The son, as best he could, assumed those duties which of necessity must sooner or later have devolved entirely upon him, and together they planned so well that by autumn they were enabled to determine upon returning for an indefinite period to their home province, Kanazawa.
“Your long continued and able service,” said Ikamon with enthusiasm, when advised of their plans, “demands some recognition at the hands of those who can ill afford to lose your presence at court. And to me, sir, it is the greatest pleasure of my life to offer some entertainment to my friends and to your friends and to be permitted the privilege. Come, my good Maido, you shall not say no, and Shibusawa, I venture, will not.”
“My son-in-law, my Ikamon, your good protestations overwhelm me. I certainly do not deserve such kindly notice. I cannot make you a ready answer—Shibusawa, will you be so good as to speak for me?”
“Yes, father,” said the son, politely bowing. “If his highness, the prime minister, so desires, I feel that it is a great privilege to acknowledge the honour.”
“And Ikamon shall make the occasion worthy the guests,” said the designing official, enthusiastic over the prospects.
Now Maido and his family could not make so important a move without first obtaining the consent of the shogun, and as this rested primarily with the prime minister, Shibusawa may have had good reason for so quickly acceding to the doing of what he knew to be tainted with something more than mere friendship. They earnestly desired the privilege of absenting themselves from the capital, not alone that Maido might enjoy the freedom of his former life and the intercourse with his people, but that Shibusawa might begin his active career at home, where he could better become acquainted, and familiarise himself with the needs and resources of the prefecture. Maido, now in his declining years, also craved the liberty of his child’s companionship freed from the cares of court life, especially that there were no pressing duties at the capital. He therefore set forth his reasons and requests in a letter, forthwith despatched to the department.
The answer soon came back at the hands of Ikamon himself, who, as a mark of extreme deference, took along for the first time his respected wife, Yasuko, a courtesy which so pleased Maido that he never forgot the incident. Indeed, they were received with so much cordiality that the set call was soon turned into an informal affair, and the little party did not break up until a late hour. After refreshments had been served they sat pleasantly chatting, the two elders about matters interesting to them, thus leaving Yasuko and Shibusawa to indulge themselves as they liked.
It was Shibusawa’s first real opportunity to hear the neighbourhood gossip, and while not at all a busybody he took advantage of the occasion to learn some of the doings affecting him most. But Yasuko was little given to gadding about, and in consequence not as conversant with the neighbourhood affairs as some others. Indeed, she had never heard of such a person as Kinsan,—nor did Shibusawa suspect that she had ever had an opportunity or reason to hear of one in her caste,—therefore, however much desired, though not expected, he gained no information in that direction.
“I do wish you would try to see Nehachibana before you go away to Kanazawa. I fear it may be a long time, Shibusawa, before you shall again have a chance.” said Yasuko, earnestly, while they were alone and out of hearing distance of the rest of those present.
“I should very much like to,” answered he, interestedly; “but I am so prejudiced against that husband of hers, Tetsutaisho, that I almost dread to go.”
“But she is so disconsolate! And, poor thing, she is jealous, and yet so wrapped up in him. I wonder she does not do some dreadful thing.”
“I presume I shall have to go there or not see her at all.”
“She seldom goes away from the house, and when she does her mother-in-law goes foremost, you can be sure of that.”
“Well, I shall manage in some way before I go, though probably it will not be until later. I shall have to encounter the husband first.”
“Oh, do, Shibusawa; I shall be so glad, and I know it will cheer her up. You remember that she was always so fond of you, and you may be able to encourage her. Please do not fail.”
“Very well; I promise you.”
Presently Ikamon came toward them, and the conversation was changed to something less personal. Then after a few pleasantries the callers began to make ready to take leave.
“I dare say,” said Ikamon, adroitly, as they were about to leave the house, “Yasuko has enjoyed this evening; her brother is seldom absent from her mind, and did I not share the same good trait I certainly should be a little jealous. Yes, sir; we think of you and your good father often, and we regret to see you going so far away from us. Yet we hope that the country will not hold you long, and that you will soon be returning to the capital, where you are so exceedingly welcome, and so illy spared.”
While it pleased Shibusawa to see such good cheer and hear praise bestowed upon his father, the encomium did not in any manner carry him away nor cause him to suspect the giver; he merely passed it by as a personal trait, without any regard to the real source of its apparent emanation. Secretly he had long ago determined that he and his family, or any other, would be courted just so long as they made themselves worth the while. He appreciated Ikamon’s kindness in suggesting the entertainment, and, regardless of the motive or consequences, proposed to enjoy such benefits as were of right his portion, so long as no moral or material right was infringed upon.
After consulting Maido’s convenience as to the time of the entertainment, Ikamon and his wife withdrew amid hearty salutations and started toward their home. The sky was clear and the moon up as they sped along in the cool of night, listening to the patter of the carriers’ feet, or looking out upon the world of beauty around them. Theirs was a happy contrast with those less fortunate, for—even in feudal Japan—this mighty statesman once delved into mother earth for meagre sustenance. There, too, the lowly rose to power and fame, and, as the great minister leaned back under the golden canopy and sniffed the balmy air floating in at the open sides, he marvelled at his own success and swelled with pride at his extraordinary rise.
“It is the power of logic that sends men on their destined way. The sway of chance or the hand of justice has little to do with the mysteries of man’s universe; it is the certainty of the thing that counts for much. The success makes right, and Ikamon knows no wrong,” said he to himself as they came close to their gilded mansion and a hundred tired backs welcomed the small relief.
Ikamon arose and stepped out of the tasselled chair, and stood waiting to assist Yasuko. Ready and willing maids had already spread the leopard skin, and as she thrust forward her dainty, white stockinged feet, two gold-lacquered shoes were placed for them. Her husband extended his hand, and she arose, gracefully walking toward the house where is known “the golden crow” and “the jewelled hare,” the law’s luxury and man’s inheritance.
The prime minister drew from his girdle a string of “cash” which he scattered, and a horde of thankful underlings scrambled for the bounty. He too entered the privileged house, and soon after, taking his proper leave, retired to his own chamber, where he planned and schemed the grandest geisha party that his age had known.